


like the raging sea

by whalersandsailors



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Photographer, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bittersweet Ending, F/F, Illustrated, Illustrations, One Night Stands, Original Character Death(s), Present Tense, Single POV, also pretentious attempts at explaining art huzzah, and the drama that entails, reimagining the characters as artists, the mature rating is for thematic elements not porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 12:13:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11600412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalersandsailors/pseuds/whalersandsailors
Summary: Billie is a photographer, or used to be. Shaken by a recent breakup, she’s lost inspiration for both her art and her life. She feels stuck with no future in sight. When her roommate Thomas suggests that she visits an offbeat gallery, she agrees, if only for some fresh air and time away from her ex.Instead, she meets Delilah—an unexpected encounter and an even more unexpected one-night stand. Billie thus finds herself in way over her head, sucked into an obsession that will be her undoing.





	like the raging sea

**Author's Note:**

> Awesome artwork by 8milkshakes and beta'd by the wonderful quintley. All mistakes mine.

_We were **like**_

**_the raging sea,_ **

_A winter love_

_That could not be._

 

_Our voices were_

_The ocean’s roar,_

_We cried until_

_We could cry no more._

 

_We mocked the storms_

_And they fell the trees,_

_Our broken limbs_

_Among scattered leaves._

 

_The tides had shown_

_What we did not heed,_

_The water holds—_

_And then recedes._

 

          _“A Winter Love”, Lang Leav_

 

 

* * *

 

Billie is standing at the curb. Cars creep by in a cacophonous mess of rush hour, coupled with pedestrians hurrying to their next destinations. All are lost in their own personal worlds of obligations, deadlines, and worries. Billie is numb to it all, her eyes a laser focus on the phone in her hand.

Things haven’t been going well. She knows this. But the glowing screen before her, small and breakable in her palm, spells out five brief words:

_I can’t do this anymore._

There’s a text heart beside the name of the sender—a dumb whim from a dumb day when Billie was dumb in love, ecstatic as she tapped in the new contact. For a second, she contemplates throwing the phone into the road, let a bus crush it into the asphalt. Her hand clutches at the plastic, her knuckles hurting from the strain. _No_ , she reminds herself, _you can’t afford a new phone_. She takes a deep breath through her nose. The air stinks of garbage and exhaust. It grounds her, yanking her back to the present. A passerby shoves into Billie’s shoulder as they trudge by without a word. Billie absently glares at them as she bites the inside of her cheek and pockets her phone.

It’s going to be a long walk to the bus stop. Billie prays to whoever the hell will listen that Frederica won’t be home when Billie gets there. Perks and all of being roommates with one’s newly christened ex.

Shit.

(.)

There is a photo taped above the nightstand, left of Billie’s bed. She meant to frame it, never got around to it. Now she means to take it down and hide it from sight. It’s a nasty reminder really. Seeing it every day adds to Billie’s bitterness, but at least that bitterness keeps her from bottling it all up.

The picture itself is unflattering, a poorly framed selfie that’s overexposed, blurry. But Frederica has a huge grin that wrinkles her nose and makes her glasses fall. Billie’s arm is visible from how she’s holding the camera, and she, too, has a poorly suppressed smile as the two women sit shoulder to shoulder in Frederica’s studio. There is sawdust in their hair, and Frederica’s glasses are crooked. Both of them look exhausted but exhilarated, from a night of last minute preparations for Frederica’s capstone exhibit.

The photo is a year old, and yet in the time gone since Billie raised her camera and blinded both of them with the flash, petty disagreements have wedged themselves between the two women. Moving in together confirmed that the magic of infatuation is brief, and the rose-colored lenses with which the two artists-in-love saw each other has faded. And now, once Frederica was finally brave enough to do what both of them knew was best, all the little nitpicks and biting quips grow like a mountain.

_“You didn’t clean out the coffee filter. Again.”_

_“Planning to do laundry ever again? Your towel in the bathroom smells like a dying rat.”_

_“You know that some of us work nights, right? So could you quit vacuuming the living room at the fucking break of dawn?”_

_“Oh, was that takeout carton yours? Sorry, must have missed the in-all-caps name.”_

“ _It’s your turn to do dishes. Yes,_ all _of them. That’s why we made a chore chart in the first place—“_

“Enough!”

Billie and Frederica both jump at the voice. Billie is leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed defensively as Frederica was haphazardly waving a dirty plate at her, but they both can see the small hallway leading to the front door. Thomas is standing there, coat and shoes still on, his bag hanging from his arm.

He’s glaring at the floor, biting his lip, and the freckles on his cheeks are highlighted by the blood gathered under his skin.

Billie watches impassively as Frederica steps out of the small kitchen toward Thomas.

“Thomas, I’m sorry,” she starts, “It’s just—“

He interrupts her, “There hasn’t been a single day without _something_.” He finally looks up, his gray eyes hard and, much to Billie’s discomfort, watering slightly. She quickly shifts her gaze to the floor.

“Thomas,” Frederica tries again though her voice trails. She’s still clutching that godawful plate to her chest, like some useless shield.

Thomas heaves a deep sigh before flinging his bag toward the nearest chair by the small kitchen table. It misses.

“Look, you two, I know it’s hard or whatever,” he shrugs as he stumbles over the words, “but it’s been a month. And worse, the lease isn’t up for _another_ month. So if you guys could stop being at each other’s throats for just a few weeks, maybe we all don’t have to kill each other.”

He doesn’t wait for either woman to say anything before he stomps past and escapes into his room. At least he doesn’t slam the door.

Frederica, for what it’s worth, is subdued. Billie goes to her and takes the plate from her hands, shockingly without a fuss.

“I’ll do the stupid dishes, okay,” Billie grumbles.

Frederica pushes up her glasses, murmurs something about a deadline, and promptly disappears down the hall to her own bedroom.

Billie drops the plate into the sink, not caring if the dollar-store ceramic breaks. The running faucet is the only noise echoing in the apartment.

The silence is almost worse than the arguments.

(.)

Thomas will not shut the hell up about it.

Billie glares at him from her perch at the breakfast bar as he shoves runny eggs in a pan with his spatula and blathers on about this _oh so great_ art gallery that he and Frederica visited yesterday and how _Billie you have got to go see this woman’s work_. Billie reminds Thomas that she’s been taking on more hours at work and really can’t see how she would have time for something she hardly cares about, especially when most days after stocking and driving a forklift all night, all she wants to do is lie in bed and watch movies.

Thomas waves a hand at her. “I know, I know. But Freddie thinks you would love it. Lots of gritty sensuality and all that.”

Like she gives a shit was Frederica thinks. Billie remains sullenly silent, making a face when she takes a drink of her now lukewarm beer. Frederica’s brief acknowledgement of Billie’s interests feels like a backhanded compliment.

“She could tell me herself, you know,” she mutters, her full lips twisting in a pout.

She knows the pout is childish, but fuck if she wants to be petty. Frederica herself was no better two days ago when she placed some old food containers in front of Billie’s door with a little square yellow note asking her to throw it out. Billie stepped on it. She had to throw out her sock.

Thomas sighs, throwing far too much salt onto the eggs before shoving them onto a plate. His shoulders are slumped, jaw tense, before he yanks out the silverware drawer and searches through the mismatched cutlery for a fork.

“I know,” he relents, the pity in his voice grating because the last thing Billie wants is Thomas’s sympathy. “But I figure going out and doing something fun and getting out of the apartment would be good for you.”

“Doing something that will just remind me of _her_ ,” Billie points out. Typical. Frederica is a force of nature—always was—and has a penchant for crashing into every crevice of people’s lives like a tsunami packaged into a petite, wild-haired woman.

“Go _with_ someone then. Get drinks, go to gallery, have a conversation with someone other than your coworkers and me—“

Billie interrupts; “I am not interested in dating right now, Thomas.”

Thomas is spearing the eggs on his plate with increasing ferocity. Billie’s stomach churns as she watches the undercooked yolks slosh about on the plate.

“It’s hardly a fucking date,” he snips, his hand a white-knuckle grip on the fork, threatening to bend the thin metal. He shoves a too big bite of watery eggs into his mouth. A trail of yolk slides to his chin that he rubs away embarrassedly. “Sorry. It’s just—I just—it’s been hell around here, and it’s exhausting watching you and Freddie mope around the apartment like your dog just died.”

Billie reminds Thomas, glaring petulantly, “ _She_ started it.”

Thomas sucks on his fork, frowning. “Really? That’s your excuse?”

“Well, she did.”

“Oh, my god.”

Billie shoves herself past Thomas to dump her beer down the sink. He dances out of her way, making a show of not dropping his plate. Billie all but slams the empty bottle on the counter. She tries to ignore Thomas’s flinch.

“ _She’s_ the one that barely looks at me anymore. Hell, I prefer when she’s mad. At least she looks at me when she’s mad.” Her voice rises to a crescendo. “I feel like a goddamn ghost around her that only exists when _she_ wants me to!”

A neighbor bangs on the wall, yelling for her to shut up. Billie allows herself only a microsecond of chagrin, but the interruption grounds her, calms her. Leaning against the counter, her voice is softer when she asks, “Why should I go somewhere that _Frederica_ thinks I’ll like?”

Thomas hums around his fork, leaves it in his mouth as he goes to the living room. He digs around in his bag before pulling out a crumpled but glossy flyer. He slides it on the counter toward Billie.

“I can go with you. If that’s what you’re worried about, ” Thomas offers. He doesn’t look at her, focused instead on twirling the fork between his fingers. “I’m not trying to force anything, Billie.”

Billie takes her eyes from the floor to look at him. He’s frowning, eyes darting from the flyer to his hands to Billie back to his hands.

“I just hate seeing two good friends like this,” he finishes.

Oh. Forget the man’s sympathy. This is worse. Billie hates seeing the normally happy-go-lucky Thomas dragged down to her level. Between his two roommates, the man is already a saint, giving Billie her space when she disappears into her makeshift black room or going to art exhibits that showcase Freddie’s sculptures. _Always a connoisseur of the arts_ , he would say, all glibness and sparkles; _gotta appreciate what I can’t do myself, you know._

Billie huffs a little, finally taking the flyer. The paper is thick, the front of it shiny and slick like a photograph.

She can’t help but demur, “I wouldn’t describe it as ‘good’ now.”

“I know, okay,” Thomas groans. “ _That_ is at least something the two of you agree on.”

Billie snorts. The words on the flyer are obnoxiously huge, taking up nearly the whole of the page, in hip Helvetica font. _The Rose Between Thorns._ Wow. Original.

Thomas continues, “I’d love if the two of you could make up your differences just for the rest of the time you’re stuck living across a hallway from each other. It’s just a few more weeks.”

Billie shrugs, checking the address and dates for the event. “Easier said, and you know that.” She holds up the flyer. “So, painter?”

Thomas blinks. “What? Oh—yeah. Uh, portraits mostly, real abstract, lots of colors. I wasn’t kidding when I said you’d like it. It’s unique. Like she took LSD and attacked the canvas.”

The words on the poster stare up at Billie like an accusation, the stark reminder that she cannot remember the last time she went to a gallery, or even helped out at the local art school’s workshops. She can’t even remember the last time she held her camera for more than a few minutes. The inspiration just isn’t there, zapped, dried to dust.

“Sure,” Billie hears herself say from a distant planet. Her finger grazes the edge of the paper. “When are you free next?” Maybe it will be bearable with Thomas’s running commentary.

Thomas grins and jokes, “I’ll check my calendar.”

(.)

Billie checks her watch for what feels like the hundredth time. She is waiting in front of the corner coffee shop, a block from the exhibition, and Thomas has not shown his pretty little freckled face despite being half an hour late. Billie tries texting him, but she doesn’t know if he’s deliberately ignoring her or if he’s forgotten his phone at home like he sometimes does.

She stomps her feet a little, shoving her hands into her pockets. She got off work an hour ago, with only coffee in her stomach, and if Thomas doesn’t show up in the next ten minutes, fuck him and fuck the gallery. Billie wants to go home. This was a ridiculous idea. Sure, the exhibit is indoors, but without a car, Billie had to rely on two buses and a decent walk to get here. The sun is blocked by a thick layer of dark gray clouds, and though the sky hasn’t started spewing out snow yet, the air is still bitingly cold. Billie burrows deeper in her scarf and debates going into the shop behind her, tempted by the wafts of warm pastry and roasted beans every time someone enters or exits the space. She looks at her watch again. Eight minutes have passed. She checks her phone again. Nothing. The battery is also on the verge of dying, which only serves to further sour her mood.

Fine, she thinks to herself. Obviously, whatever is watching her from above doesn’t want this playdate to happen. So fucking be it.

Billie wants to be anywhere other than this street corner--preferably somewhere warm. She slips into the coffee shop, grateful for the small crowd, unsurprising in the late afternoon, and orders a small cappuccino to go. The styrofoam is warm in her hands, and she holds the cup close to her chest as she braces herself for the short walk back to the bus stop.

Street lamps crackle lazily to life as the sky gets darker. Neon and fluorescent lights paint the sidewalk and dirty snow by the street in an eerie glow. Billie sips her coffee, hissing when it scalds her tongue. She wishes she had her camera with her, a bit taken aback by this desire. But as she looks at the street before her, slowly shifting over to its nighttime denizens, she finds herself missing the familiar feel of its curves in her fingers and the sound of its shutter clicking as she tries to stamp the memories of the city onto film.

A trio of laughing women stumble in front of Billie, and she flinches almost dropping her coffee.

“Watch it!” one of the women snaps, hair coiffed under a stylish if dated hat, her makeup dark and elaborate, red lips sneering.

Billie holds her free hand up, frowning back at the woman, “I’m not the one throwing myself at strangers.”

The woman’s lip curls into a snarl, but before it can escalate into a real fight, one of her companions pulls at her elbow.

“Don’t mind her, Bridget; come on,” she pleads, a telltale slur to her words.

The third friend also links her arm with Bridget, all but dragging the woman away. Billie stares blankly, eyebrows raised, as she watches the women continue a few more staggering steps before hailing a taxi. Billie sips her coffee and purses her lips. Artist types. Pretentious, self-involved assholes, more like. Billie has never fully embraced the title of artist, even when she had been practicing her photography regularly. She preferred comparing herself to writers of the world—the scholars and the journalists.

She examines the building from which the women stumbled. It’s ugly, squat and gray, too much concrete, the result of a decades-ago architect who thought the straight edges and asymmetrical windows would be modern and revolutionary. Now, crammed into its space among taller and newer buildings, it’s just sad.

Frederica would have laughed at its ugliness, throwing her head back, the apples of her cheeks turning pink. Billie hates the building even more.

Peals of laughter and excited voices snatch her attention from the building. Two more women leave the front door, their figures framed by bright lights behind them. Billie notices the large, vinyl poster that hangs near the main entrance.

_The Rose Between Thorns._

Billie huffs, her brow furrowed, eyes squinting.

“You’re kidding,” she complains, in mild disbelief.

She must have walked past it earlier, she realizes. There’s a second poster, different from the design on the flyer. Delilah Copperspoon. The artist. Her face is rendered on the poster in harsh lighting that accentuates an elfin face, framed in shadows, her eyes trained upward. The title of the exhibit is printed beneath the woman’s collarbone.

Billie stands there for another minute before finally going to the door. A gust of wind cuts through her coat.

Well, even without Thomas, she’s already here. Might as well.

The entrance glows with soft white light, a tantalizing invitation as the street grows increasingly dark. Billie doesn’t see anyone else when she pulls open the door and enters. There’s a sign standing near a hallway, directing Billie to the left. At the end of the hall, there is a thin woman sitting at a receptionist’s desk, her long, manicured nails clacking away distractedly at a thin laptop. Her head rises when she hears Billie approach, eyebrows arched and lips drooped in what Billie thinks is one of the most unwelcoming resting faces she has ever seen. The high bun pulling all the skin around her forehead and cheeks just adds to the severity.

Billie slows a little, her hand gesturing to the entry way beside the woman. “ _The Rose Between Thorns_?”

The woman’s eyes make a dramatic somersault before she pointedly tilts her head toward the sign in front of her, a repeat of the flier. Billie swallows and just nods.

“Okay. Thanks,” she says as she hurries past the desk.

“Excuse me,” the woman’s snaps, a waspish sting.

Billie freezes.

A delicate forefinger points at the coffee still in Billie’s hand. Oh, right.

“Is there a—?” Billie gestures. She doesn’t see a garbage bin anywhere.

The receptionist heaves a long-suffering sigh before she picks up a wire basket and slides it toward Billie.

“Uh, thanks,” Billie manages, quickly tossing the cup and continuing toward the exhibit’s main room.

“Don’t take long,” the woman’s voice follows Billie like a whip cracking, “We close in twenty minutes.”

Well, shit. Billie looks at her watch in disbelief. It wasn’t that late. _What the hell? Explains all the people leaving, I guess._ Billie absorbs the ambiance of the small room with surprise and only a touch of trepidation. It’s rectangular with the paintings all facing inward toward each other with lights aiming toward them, illuminated saints of the space. The only structure blocking the openness of the space are two large square pillars toward the center of the room, both graced with smaller but equally vibrant canvases.

No one is there but Billie.

She starts to her right, the rubber soles of her sneakers slapping uncomfortably loud on the concrete floors. In a moment of self-consciousness, she yanks out her phone to make sure it won’t beep when Thomas finally gets his ass together and returns her calls. It’s dead. Billie sighs and puts it back into her pocket, realizing with a start that she recognizes the face in the portrait in front of her.

Oh. It’s the receptionist. It’s her earrings that give it away, the large pearls. Draped in shades of blue and maroon, her dark hair fading into the seat behind her like some strange phantom, she seems more relaxed in acrylic than in flesh. She’s smiling, slight as it is, and that’s what weirds Billie out enough to move on to the next.

The next painting is more generic, fit for a hotel lobby more than a gallery, but it is equally compelling. A house, a mansion really, stands in the center of a flowering field, surrounded by rough cliffs painted in dark reds. Foliage creeps up the building and across the windows and into a gaping hole in the roof; the darkness of the building and cliffs are stabbed with pinpricks of white for small bundles of flowers. The flowered vines crisscross the overgrown grass, creating a warped perspective, a deep v-shape where the mansion sinks into the painting as the vines seem to move closer to the viewer.

When Billie’s vision blurs enough that the vines begin moving in her periphery, she turns away to go to one of the pillars in the center. More portraits. Women, mostly, though there are some men, older and regal and austere. Some portraits are intimate with a soft profile, secretive smiles, and clothes sliding off shoulders and hinting at the swell of breasts. Other portraits are stiff, militant, with splashes of red and the subject defiantly staring straight at the viewer.

Billie tilts her head, hating to admit to herself that Thomas was not baiting her into getting outside of the apartment. It’s nice. She admits to herself that the gallery is a welcome distraction to all the shit in her life. The portraits are hauntingly beautiful, and the still life paintings curiously animated. Billie finds herself enraptured with a portrait, a smaller one, of a woman whose features favor Frederica, her hair obscuring much of her face save a devilish smile and a single, glowing eye. Billie can’t help but laugh privately to herself. Of course, Thomas must have also saw the merit of the gallery with the hardly subtle homoeroticism in most of the works. Billie does not mind it at all.

“Is there something funny about that one?” A voice, soft and with a hint of gravel, breaks through Billie’s thoughts.

Billie instinctively lets out another breathless chuckle. She shakes her head. “Oh, no. No.” She wets her lips, still looking at the painting’s sharp smile. What is it about women in paintings with ambiguous smiles? “She just—she looks like someone I know.”

“Ah.” The voice hums in approval. “I must wonder if your friend is as fiery as that young woman. It is an admirable if not contentious trait.”

“Yeah, well,” Billie starts, images now bombarding her mind, of Frederica in her glasses, hair a mess, smiling up at Billie from the bed they used to share some nights. There is only so much that Billie feels like sharing with a complete stranger.

“Most of the time, she’s fine,” she ends tersely, turning to look behind her.

Her eyes widen. She recognizes the face from the flyers. Dark slicked-back hair, pale skin, thin face, this figure before her is as if a statue come to life. Their gaze is sharp, penetrative, and Billie feels herself being pulled into that magnetic stare, intimate and destructive as it is.

Delilah.

Oh _shit._

_Delilah._

Billie visibly starts when she fully realizes that she’s been having a conversation with the painter of the gallery, as casual as talking about the weather with people in line at the grocery store. Delilah herself is obviously amused by the slack-jawed look on Billie’s face.

“Oh,” Billie blathers, unsure what to say. “I — you’re — uh.”

Either to Billie’s further embarrassment or relief—she really can’t decide—Delilah comes to the poor woman’s rescue;

“The artist. Yes.” She dips her head in a mock bow before turning back to look at the paintings before them. “I don’t normally visit galleries that house my work. Too many gushing fans willing to say anything to win my favor.” She slides her hands down her already impeccable dark burgundy pantsuit, smoothing wrinkles only she can see. “But seeing how this is our last week, I was curious to see how Breanna arranged everything. It’s good to see my work put in flattering light.”

Billie bites the inside of her cheek. _Shit. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit._ She _really_ wishes that she had paid more attention to Freddie when she talked about painters. Billie lacks the advantage of formal schooling, so no Contemporary Art Appreciation 101 was going to save her hide. She side-eyes Delilah in time to watch the woman as she backs away from the pillar and examines the entire room. Just how famous _is_ Delilah? Billie tries to remember that face from any previous fliers, magazine covers, websites, anything, but Billie can’t dredge up any memory of this woman.

She catches herself when she realizes that her eyes have been trailing along the woman’s long neck and tight jaw with a little too much scrutiny. Billie snaps her eyes back to the painting; of course, the smiling bitch in the frame looks like she’s mocking Billie. _Really_ , she chastises herself, _you barely know this woman, and she’s a celebrity, and you’re checking her out_. Billie blames it on curiosity. The woman is interesting, and her art is great. That’s it. Nothing more.

Billie breathes in deeply through her nose, willing herself to say something when she is interrupted by Delilah.

“What do you think of this painting?” Delilah inclines her head at one of the smaller works on the opposite pillar.

Caught off guard, Billie splutters, “I’m sorry, what?”

Delilah repeats her question, gesturing at the portrait before her. Billie steps closer--still far enough for comfort but close enough to better look at the painting in front of Delilah. Billie hesitates, unsure why Delilah is suddenly asking her professional opinion when the woman obviously has wealth and success, and here’s Billie standing in a ragged wool coat, work boots, and a poorly knit cap (a gift from a friend, kept out of pure sentiment).

The painting itself is small, in the center of the painting is a large man seated stiffly in a leather armchair. The room surrounding him is drenched in a sickening amount of gold. The man himself is the perfect image of gluttony. His jowls hang over the tight constraints of his collar, his eyes like beads stuffed into the rolls of fat. The bottom of the portrait fades from the floor of the room into a mural depicting the same man acting the part of a good samaritan with ragged, destitute people. The faces of the people he assists are blurred, which Billie wonders is supposed to give more attention to the man or less importance to their suffering.

Delilah prompts her again, the frozen smile on her face giving Billie no hint as to what she could say that would be the most diplomatic.

“It’s. Well, it’s. Different. The mural is a unique choice. The man himself is--” Billie stops, clears her throat, decides to jump off the boat, uncaring if she sinks or not. “No. It’s just ugly.”

Delilah barks a laugh.

Billie flinches at the noise. That’s...unexpected.

“Oh, it’s _hideous_. It was a commission from a beastly man who demanded artistic input every step of the way. I almost didn’t finish it, despite what the man paid me.” Delilah’s eyes shine as she glances over her shoulder at Billie. “And you are the first person to insult it to my face. Thank you.”

The skin of Billie’s cheek and forehead feel warm, and she’s suddenly grateful that her dark skin masks blushes well.

Billie dips her head before murmuring without a small touch of facetiousness, “I aim to please.”

“I doubt that very much,” Delilah quips back. “You’re an artist, yes? You have a critical eye and are the first to give me an honest appraisal. Admittedly, one I dislike, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re willing to upset me.”

Billie frowns; “That’s not what I meant.”

Delilah cocks her head. “Isn’t it though?”

Billie considers this. She should just leave. The gallery is probably closed by now. All of this—the growing storm outside, the bleak concrete of the building, the receptionist, the emptiness of the gallery—is becoming too much.

Trying to not make too much a show of looking at her watch, Billie just shrugs, saying, “You know, I shouldn’t keep you. I have to head out—“

Delilah clicks her tongue. “Going so soon? You’re certainly not wasting my time.”

Billie resists the urge to groan. Why is this difficult? “Your receptionist said—“

With a click of her tongue, Delilah waves a hand. “Breanna can say what she wants. She is too highly-strung.”

“Still,” Billie tries again.

“What do you paint?” Delilah asks, deliberately ignoring Billie’s attempt at a graceful escape.

“I’m sorry?”

“Tell me my assumption that you’re an artist isn’t wrong? I’m usually quite good at reading people.”

“No, it’s not— I don’t paint.” Billie thinks of cramped studio that Thomas and Frederica share. The cloth drops, wrinkled and shoved about the floor, brushes in jars, shelves of paints, and stacks of canvases. She would sometimes stop by with a tray of coffee after work when she knew one of them would be using the space, the drafty room made homier by the crackling radio from the equally paint-splattered stereo on the step-stool in the corner. Frederica was much messier than Thomas getting smears of paint down her apron and caught in her hair. Frankly, it was a miracle that she never ruined her glasses with how often she accidentally swiped her forehead or cheek with a wet brush.

Billie realizes that Delilah is staring at her. She internally kicks herself. _You’re worse than a hormonal teenager._ As much as getting out was a good idea, Billie is regretting the art gallery more and more the longer that she’s here, trapped in a conversation with a woman both gorgeous and intimidating, and god, she wishes that she had beer in her system rather than caffeine.

“I, uh, take pictures,” she explains lamely. “Photographs.”

“So, I was right,” Delilah intones with a note of satisfied victory in her voice.

Billie hunches her shoulders into her coat. “Kinda, yeah.”

Delilah’s chuckle sounds delighted. “Photography then. What of?”

“I mostly did school portraits. Sometimes weddings.”

A scoff. “Society’s paradigms of sentiment. What photos do you take for _you_?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Well, surely you used your camera for more than what people paid you for.”

Billie thinks about it, contemplating once again the figures in Delilah’s portraits; the stark difference between the commission dripping in its ugly, gold tones and the fire in the paintings of friends and lovers.

“I like people. Not portraits, not like this,” she intones, her eyes dancing across the portraits of the room, skirting away from any and all eye contact. “But I like people. How they dress, how they move, in the streets, in their homes. How they interact with each other. I like the realism of it, just the raw sense of humanity. Parks, streets, even just a lit up apartment building. Just. Signs of life, like the breathing of the city itself.”

Billie ends with a shrug, trailing off. She sees Delilah shift in her periphery.

“There it is,” the other woman murmurs.

Billie flinches slightly when a single finger reaches up to her cheekbone. Her eyes dart to Delilah.

There is a smile in her voice; “ _There_ is your passion.”

Heat flames up on Billie’s face, and there is such a strange conflict between wanting to sink through the floor but also lean into that touch.

Mercifully, Billie doesn’t have to choose between the two when someone clearing their throat from a few feet away makes Delilah move. She doesn’t look entirely pleased about it, a deep crease forming between her dark brows when she turns to look at whoever interrupted them.

“What, Breanna.”

The receptionist is hardly deterred by Delilah’s curt tone, glaring in Billie’s direction.

“I was just checking if you needed anything before I finish closing up.”

Billie watches as Delilah’s eyes narrow before a light enters them. The corner of the woman’s lips quirks, revealing a sharp canine.

“Why, Breanna, dear,” Delilah coos as she closes the distance between herself and the receptionist, “you look exhausted. Why don’t I—“ She casually plucks the keys from Breanna’s hand; “close up instead? You should go home and rest.”

“I—“ Breanna’s eyes dart from Delilah and Billie.

Billie shrinks deeper into her coat and stares intently at one of the paintings, trying to look uninterested in the other women.

“It’s the least I can do for you, Breanna, after what a help you’ve been.”

That was it. Nail in the coffin. Billie can hear Breanna huff and mumble something incoherent, but there is the sharp click of her heels as she goes back to her desk to gather her things. And now Billie realizes that she truly is alone with Delilah Copperspoon. Oh.

Billie clears her throat, pulls her arms behind her in a light stretch. “It’s getting late. I should head out, too.”

Delilah tilts her head, staring off in the distance as if at a clock only she could see. “Is it?”

“Yeah, uh. I’ll just...” Billie bobs her head, readjusts her hat, and starts for the door.

The receptionist is gone already in what Billie assumes was a fast exit out of anger, maybe a little embarrassment. Billie hopes that it’s stopped snowing outside so that she won’t have to wait for the bus in the storm. A hand tucks quickly into the crook of her elbow, slowing her down.

“Let me walk you out, hm?” Delilah’s voice curls into the shell of Billie’s ear. “I won’t be long.”

Unsure what else to say, given her multiple attempts to leave, Billie lingers by the front desk as Delilah locks a back door and turns off the lights. The room of paintings is thrown into darkness, and Billie feels her heart beating a little faster when Delilah emerges from the shadows. Delilah gives a tiny smile, more personable than earlier, before she places her hand on the small of Billie’s back as the pair walk to the entrance. Billie wonders if Delilah is so casually physical with everyone she meets—or only the people she finds attractive.

The air outside slaps against Billie’s cheeks without care. The wind’s picked up, she notices. She glances up at the sky, the thick sheet of clouds above her head hanging like a shroud and glowing an eerie maroon from the lights of city. Specks of snow are falling with greater speed, and Billie scrunches up an eye when a flake lands high on her cheek. Wonderful.

“Where are you headed next?”

Delilah’s voice is like perfume—heady, feminine—a temptation curling into Billie’s nostrils. She looks back at Delilah where she locks the main doors. Despite the outdoor lighting, the modern cut of the building’s concrete makes it look more like a prison than a home of the arts.

Billie squints her eyes, watering as they are from the cold wind. “I’m getting a bus about a block from here.”

A scoff or a chuckle slips from Delilah. Billie hardly cares. Her head is getting wrapped tighter and tighter by that voice. She finally looks at Delilah.

“I cannot let you leave in good conscience,” Delilah insists. “I’ll call a cab.”

“It’s fine,” Billie mumbles a protest. “I don’t mind walking.”

“In _this_ weather, nonsense. You’ll catch your death.”

Billie can’t think of what else to argue, so she stuffs her hands into her jacket and blankly watches as Delilah takes out a slim phone. Her long fingers swipe at the screen, its light digging deep shadows along the bones of Delilah’s face. Billie should leave. She knows what this means: sharing a cab, following her home, having a drink. She knows where this goes. She’s standing at the edge of the cliff, afraid to jump. The longer she stands there, the more the ground crumbles beneath her.

This is getting heavy fast. Billie didn’t expect this.

“There’s a car nearby,” Delilah says, interrupting Billie’s panic. “They can pick us up in a few minutes.”

Billie grunts a quiet response, feeling a slow apprehension blossom between the two of them, a thick impermeable bubble. She feels as though her stomach is about to fall between her legs, but one glance at Delilah shows the other woman with a sedate look on her face while she picks at a cuticle. Her eyes flick up, catching Billie’s gaze, and Billie hurriedly looks back at the snow accumulating on the ground.

Delilah smiles, a curl of her lips growing into an impish smirk.

There is no loss of understanding between the two women.

Nothing but the hum of the city and her evening inhabitants crowding the space between Billie and Delilah, and a few agonizingly long minutes, their ride appears around the corner. The car slows before them, and a pimply-faced young redhead rolls down her window to call to them.

“Ready?” Delilah asks Billie, completely ignoring their hired chauffeur.

The word resounds in Billie’s ears like a challenge. Fine, Billie thinks to herself. She refuses to be played like some shy, virginal flower. This is Delilah’s game, apparently—picking up whatever she finds pretty and interesting, near-drowning them in compliments and riddles, and then taking them home for a night of fun. Billie can play just as easily. She stares at the sparks Delilah’s eyes a few seconds longer than necessary. Her heart beats faster and faster and faster like a frenzied drummer.

“Yeah,” Billie says, no quaver in her voice, some of her confidence resurfacing.  

Delilah’s grin is delighted, and Billie mentally scores herself a few points as the two of them climb into the car’s roomy backseat. Delilah occupies herself on her phone once they’re settled. The driver attempts small talk about the snow, but with the storm increasing, the girl’s voice is betrayed by a small tremor of worry. She bites her lip, concentrating all on the road, and leaves her passengers to their own thoughts. Billie leans on an arm, watching the orange street lamps whip by like fireflies. Her other hand drums against her thigh.

She didn’t notice or bother to ask where they were headed, though Billie is still surprised when the car ride lasts a scant half hour. They pull into a half-circle drive that buts against the glass front of a fancy lobby—high ceilings, crystal lights, and doorman all. Billie catches herself holding her breath and tries to ease the tension coursing through her neck.

Delilah slips out the car with a feline grace, and Billie quickly follows her example, determined to not lose her nerve. The lobby is white—mirroring the snow-covered sidewalks and roads outside, and the doorman rushes to greet them with clumsy fanfare, apparently recognizing Delilah and wanting to make an impression. He doesn’t spare Billie a second glance. Delilah coolly sidesteps the man, catching Billie by the elbow and tugging her toward the elevator. The doorman takes a hint, a bit deflated, but he returns to his desk when Delilah ignores him to push the button for the elevator.

Billie nudges her with the elbow caught in her grip; “That happen often?” She keeps her voice low.

“Often enough.” Delilah wrinkles her nose. “My celebrity will wear off. You see, I’ve only recently moved here.”

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open.

“Which reminds me,” Delilah purrs, tilting her head to look at Billie with that usual mixture of curiosity and hunger; “I have to apologize in advance for the mess. The exhibit takes so much of my time that I’ve hardly unpacked a thing.”

Delilah steps into the elevator, letting her fingers slide from the crook in Billie’s arm, and Billie follows, still strung by an invisible leash.

Before she can stop herself, Billie asks, “You can afford this type of place?” As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she mentally kicks herself. Yeah, not weird or rude at all. Good job. The elevator closes, so there goes any desire to just walk away.

“I mean, you’re obviously successful, it’s just...” Billie trails off, her mind swirling around all the wildly talented people in her life, most of whom juggle multiple jobs with their craft, and well, if Delilah’s home is any indication of “making it,” Billie has many friends who would kill for Delilah’s secrets.

Delilah, for what it’s worth, finds no offense in the question, shrugging a single shoulder.

“I have generous patrons,” is all she says, no hint of person or figures, which is really for the best.

More questions sprout in Billie’s head, but she silences them. She desperately hopes that Delilah will be serving drinks, preferably something strong. All of this will be much easier if Billie is drunk.

Their floor is near the top, though Billie notes that the building is not terribly tall. When the elevator stops, the hallway revealed to them is simpler than downstairs, with beige walls and old but well-maintained wood floors. Delilah leads Billie to the last door on the left, pulling a keyring from her coat pocket and pushing the door open.

Billie lingers in the hallways for a split second as Delilah leans on her front door, her hawkish eyes penetrating Billie with an unflagging scrutiny. The foyer of the apartment is dark, though there is a faint light from what Billie can only assume is a window somewhere past the hallway.

Delilah’s voice is soft as velvet, but it bounces off the empty walls of the hallway with a crashing gravity. She repeats her question from earlier, a weird check-in, perhaps a habit with every shifty-eyed creature she brings in from the cold.

“Ready?”

Billie looks at her and steps inside. Her heart is a relentless hammer in her chest, and she tries to breathe deeply through her nose in an attempt to calm her pulse. Delilah pulls the door shut, and the darkness of the apartment envelopes Billie like a glove. _Breathe_ , she reminds herself. _You want to be here. You chose this_. As her eyes adjust, Billie can see a faint glow coming from the end of the hall that she can only assume is the light of the city coming in through windows.

She’s blinded momentarily when Delilah clicks a light on.

“Can I take your coat?”

“Oh, sure.” Billie undoes the clasps and unzips it, handing it to Delilah. The woman has already removed her coat, hanging the garment on an old fashioned coat rack. Billie finds it...quaint. There’s even a small table in the entry way with a bouquet of flowers, a couple of propped up greeting cards, and a delicate china dish with some loose change in it. It’s homey, familiar, like a visit to grandmother’s house.

“Your hat, too?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Billie removes her beanie and smooths her hair down.

She feels calm now. Weird how seeing small reminders of an actual, functioning home was what it takes to ground her.

“Right this way,” Delilah says, gesturing toward the end of the hall. “Please don’t mind the clutter. You can move anything that’s in your way.”

Oh, wow. The windows are enormous, floor-to-ceiling, framing the cityscape and sucking in the light of the sleeping city. Delilah ignores the room’s main light and turns on a floor lamp. The light is warm and cozy, even if it feels dwarfed by the immensity of the room. The lamp is beside a large, white couch, but otherwise, there are empty shelves, a table, and boxes everywhere.

“Go ahead, make yourself comfortable,” Delilah chimes in, patting her hand on the back of the sofa. She removes the blazer of her suit, revealing a slim-fitting black blouse. “I’ll get us drinks. Anything you’d like?”

Billie yanks her eyes away from the room, embarrassed that Delilah may think she was gawking.

“Beer?” she asks.

“I should have that,” she says with another small smile.

The kitchen is separated from the main sitting room by an island, and Billie watches as Delilah turns the light on in the modern chrome-infested kitchen. As Delilah pokes through the refrigerator and the cabinets, Billie lets herself sink into the couch and carefully redirects her eyes to the rest of the room. Seeing the empty bookshelves makes Billie wonder what kind of library a woman like Delilah would have. Art books, probably, but does she prefer novels to nonfiction? Mystery to romance?

Billie is once again struck that she is in the apartment of a famous near-stranger.

Delilah returns, interrupting any resurgence of Billie’s panic, a bottle of beer in one hand and a tumbler of gold colored liquor in the other. Billie accepts the bottle with a quiet thanks, and Delilah ignores the size of the couch by sitting inches away from Billie. She props herself with her elbow on the back of the sofa. Her thigh is pressed against Billie’s, and did she notice how deep the neckline of Delilah’s shirt cut because she is noticing it now.

Billie takes a sip of the beer, her head already feeling light.

“I wanted to bring up what you said in the gallery,” Delilah ventures, swishing the liquid in her cup, “How you said that you like people and capturing moments of their everyday lives. It’s such a fascinating and wonderfully honest answer.”

“I know people who would disagree with you. Think it’s boring or some shit,” Billie mumbles into the mouth of the bottle. She takes a gulp from the bottle. “But what the hell? Fuck them.”

Billie’s answer must have tickled something in Delilah because she dips her head back and laughs.

“That,” she manages between a couple of breathy chuckles, “is what I like. Direct. So many women who meet me are so star-struck or intimidated that they never manage to look up from their shoes, much less engage in conversation with me.”

Billie’s grip tightens on the beer bottle. “You think so? I’ve hardly told a thing about me or what I do, and you think I’m that interesting?”

“Quite,” Delilah responds. She empties her glass in one gulp, no reaction to the liquor at all. “And I must say, we are alike in that regard.”

Delilah leans forward to place her half-empty glass on the floor. Billie stares at Delilah’s breasts as they shift under the black silk. Delilah catches the look, a knowing glint in her own eye. She briefly stands only to hook one of her ankles behind Billie’s and straddle Billie’s lap. Her hand rests at the base of Billie’s neck.

“We both know why you’re here, hm?” Delilah whispers, bringing her lips to Billie’s ear and dragging them slowly across her jaw to her chin. “And I’m a straightforward person, so I would like to get to the point.”

Nerves shoot down Billie’s back, and she shifts her legs, feeling warmth grow between her thighs. Delilah’s tongue darts out to swipe at the corner of Billie’s mouth before she pulls Billie’s lower lip into her mouth, biting. Billie’s breath hitches, and a desperate groan escapes her before she can control it. Delilah smiles against her lips, fully controlling the speed of the kiss as she deepens it, sliding her tongue slowly against Billie’s.

Billie thinks of Frederica before she squashes that uninvited, traitorous longing.

To distract herself, Billie pushes harder against Delilah and hooks each of her hands under the other woman’s knees, pulling her farther and tighter into her lap. Delilah groans in appreciation, running a hand down Billie’s hair and the back of her neck. She clasps Billie’s neck, her nails digging like claws into the soft skin. After another lingering second, Delilah pulls away, her lips still brushing against Billie’s, her breath hot and moist. She takes one of Billie’s hands and guides it to her collarbone, inviting Billie to touch the exposed skin of her chest and between her breasts. Billie tests the waters by slipping her hand under the blouse, running her fingers against the smooth skin of Delilah’s breast, rolling the hardened nub of her nipple under her palm. Delilah reacts with a sigh, rolling her hips toward Billie.

She presses her lips against Billie’s ear once more, “As much as I am enjoying this, I’d rather we move to somewhere more spacious.”

Billie lets her hands slide from Delilah as the other woman stands up. With little ceremony, Delilah removes her blouse, revealing pale skin stretched tight against her ribcage and her small breasts accentuated by a smattering of freckles that start from her stomach. Her belly button is pierced, and in a moment of spontaneous arousal, Billie tugs Delilah’s hips forward so she can lap her tongue against the cool metal.

Firmly but gently, Delilah pushes Billie back against the couch. Billie realizes that Delilah is the one controlling the pace, and she is more than willing to let Delilah take over.

“You finish your beer,” Delilah croons, her finger sliding under Billie’s chin, “and then meet me in the bedroom.”

She saunters away with a swing of her hips that she knows Billie watches. Billie takes a second to breathe in and out a few times. She can hear running water in what she can only assume is the bathroom before Delilah moves deeper into the apartment. Billie looks at the windows. She can see her own disheveled reflection in the glass.

Okay.

Three gulps, and the beer is gone. Billie leaves her phone and keys on the table nearest the couch, not trusting herself to keep track of them elsewhere.

She sees light from a hall that breaks off the main entryway, and she goes to find Delilah.

(.)

There’s a roaring in Billie’s ears. Or in the room. Maybe in space itself.

It crashes. Stops. Flows. Silence. Then again, crash. Stop. Flow. Silence.

Her head feels heavy, a sharp pain stabbing her temple, rhythmically like a clock. Billie opens her eyes slowly, with the weight of the world on them. The room is dim. Billie takes a second before she remembers where she is. Oh, god, that’s right. She tries sitting up. Shit. Too fast, too fucking fast. She lowers herself back down and groans. Her eyes squeeze shut, and she presses the palm of her hands on her eyes.

What time is it? Billie has a vague recollection about leaving her phone in the other room. Clothes? God, she’ll manage. Her keys? Fuck. She thinks she left them in a good place. On the coffee table? Or are they still in her coat?

Anxiety clenches inside of Billie’s chest like a vice, and she remembers why she didn’t do one-night stands in college. The mornings after fucking blowed—that awkward dance and posture, stilted _good mornings,_ maybe sharing a cup of coffee, then shuffling off in wrinkled clothes, returning to some semblance of normality.

 _Where is Delilah?_ Sensing her solitude, Billie notes that the clamor of the city is only a hum, blocked by the thickness of the walls. No other noise sneaks its way into the bedroom from the rest of the apartment, and as Billie spreads her arms wide against the bed in a stretch, she feels no other body in the sheets with her.

She sighs and rolls to her side. Opening her eyes, she sees a wind-up alarm clock on the nightstand. The crashing in her ears fade as she checks the time.

7:45 AM.  Should be light out then.

Billie pulls herself out of the bed. Memories of the night before flood her, and it’s weird how her mind focuses on tiny details, as though she can only remember glimpses of the night through a magnifying glass. She gathers what clothes she can find, annoyed when her bra and a single sock are missing, but Billie decides she feels more prepared to deal with what will come now that she has pants on.

After a quick trip to the bathroom to relieve herself, she spies—with some mortification—her reflection in the mirror and the dark bruises that line one side of her neck.

Delilah likes to bite, apparently. Funny. Billie can’t recall that.

Feeling a bit like a burglar or a guest far overstaying her welcome, Billie is light on her feet as she pads down the short hallway to the living room. The room is smaller, now that Billie’s senses aren’t hampered by her nerves or by drink. No lights are on, but the overcast sky shines glaringly bright and gray into the room. Billie squints, bites back a groan. She would prefer to be blinded by sun.

There’s relief when she retrieves her phone and keys from the coffee table. She checks her phone. Oh, yeah. Dead. Crap. Billie hopes no one (Thomas) tried to call. Billie tucks the phone into the back pocket of her jeans.

Still no sign of Delilah.

Billie moves into the kitchen, retrieving her shoes from the floor as she goes. Again, no sign of life. Not even a used coffee mug or bowl of cereal. Though Billie does see a square of paper stuck to the fridge with large, looping cursive on it.

It reads, “Thank you for last evening. Help yourself to tea or coffee. You can show yourself out. – Delilah”

“Fuck,” Billie whispers. “That’s cold.”

So, that’s it. Delilah is gone, who knows when to return. Billie’s head is a throbbing mess, and now she feels a sudden urge to heave up all the contents of her stomach. What else did Billie expect? A celebrity artist like Delilah probably has lovers lined out the door, and Billie fucking knew this when she climbed into bed with the woman.

Billie leaves the note where she found it. Best to duck out while it’s still graceful, and Billie is feeling more like an idiot the longer she stays here. She seeks out the rest of her clothes when, spurred by a tendril of hurt pride and spontaneity, she grabs a loose pen from the counter and scribbles her name and phone number on Delilah’s note. Billie lets out a deep breath. Maybe it’s naïve to hope, but she doesn’t see the point in wasting the possibility.

She gives the living room filled with boxes and cluttered furniture one final look before retrieving her coat and hat from the entryway. She doesn’t know how to lock the door without deadbolting it, so she leaves it alone. If Delilah cares, she would have included that in the goddamn note.

The lobby is also less grandiose and intimidating in the light of dawn, and the doorman is someone else now—a white-haired, mustachioed man hunched over a desk. His beady eyes peer at Billie as she hurries past, like she has a target on her back, a gigantic sign proclaiming to all that she’s a stranger who doesn’t belong here. Billie dips her head and trudges out into the fresh snow, the icy chill seeping into her feet.

Fuck, she wishes she found both socks.

(.)

Billie makes good time getting back to her building, but the seemingly endless flights of stairs always gets to her. Fourth floor. Why did they move onto the fourth floor? She tries to forget the hellish day the three roommates had to move in beds and their couch.

She absently counts the steps as she goes, dreading the conversation with Thomas. He’ll be concerned. He always is. Billie thinks he might have work this morning. She hopes that’s the case. She can charge her phone, text him to let him know she’s alive, and by the time he gets home, he won’t be in a frenzy. Hopefully.

Frederica is coming out the front door as Billie gets to the top of the final staircase. Time freezes for a second, and Billie almost turns right around. She hesitates for a breath too long, and Frederica sees her. Their eyes lock for a second before both look down. Instinct. Frederica grabs the strap of her purse tighter, and Billie fiddles with her keyring. The hallways feels smaller, like the walls are compressing.

Their passing each other is almost uneventful, but right as their shoulders brush, Frederica breaks the silence.

“Where were you last night?” Her voice is flat.

Billie doesn’t answer. She takes a second to even register that Frederica said something. Her skin crawls as she realizes how she smells--the musk of work, sweat, and sex.

Frederica continues, undaunted, “You weren’t answering your phone.” She adds, an afterthought, “Thomas was worried.”

Billie feels the edges of her keys bite into her palm.

“Thomas was supposed to meet me,” Billie retorts, her voice a whip, shoving back Frederica’s unspoken accusations. “He didn’t show up. You know how he is.”

Frederica turns to her, the note of worry in her voice genuine. Or so it sounds. Billie’s minds morphs it into an accusation.

“It’s not like you to stay out all night.”

“How the hell would you know _what I’m like_ since you stopped paying attention months ago?”

“That’s not what I mean—“

“Oh, that’s _not_ why you’re interrogating me?”

Billie tries to walk away toward the door, but Frederica won’t stop.

“Jesus, Billie, I was just worried something happened, and here you are—“

She grabs Billie’s arm, but Billie twists and wrenches it again. The corner of her fingernail catches Frederica in the face, pushing her glasses and scratching her cheek.

“My business is _my_ business. You don’t decide when you can be a part of it anymore,” Billie snarls.

They are standing nose to nose. Frederica’s gaze drags up and down Billie, her lips tightening into a thin line. Billie steps away, holding her hand of keys up like a barrier. She is too hungover still to want a shouting match, but boy, does Frederica bring out the best in her.

“You’re not my goddamn keeper, Freddie,” Billie grits out, “So, back off.”

Frederica is breathing heavy, glaring holes into the floor now, but she stays sullenly quiet. She shoves a hard finger at her glasses, readjusts her purse strap, and turns to leave.

“I have a class,” she mutters as way of exit.

Caught off-guard, Billie mentions, “It’s Saturday.”

Frederica shrugs and waves a hand dismissively at Billie. “My business can be private, too, Billie.”

She spits out Billie’s name like venom, and Billie feels anger pulsate in her all over again. She stomps into the apartment, throwing the door shut behind her. She looks for something to break.

(.)

The next three days pass in a blur. Billie finds herself living in a mimicry of habits. She tries to sleep, she goes to work, she comes home and secludes herself in her room, and starts over. She hasn’t heard from Delilah. There’s a strong chance that Delilah never even saw the number left on the note.

Billie feels childish for hoping.

She stops by the library after a night of driving the forklift and stocking shelves at work. It’s not on her usual route home, but she needs to use a computer and doesn’t want to borrow one of her roommates’ again. She also needs the space away from Frederica’s prying eyes and Thomas’s endless questions.

The scratch on Frederica’s cheek turned angry and red, but Billie will not admit to herself how satisfying the mark makes her feel. Thomas was a blustered mess when Billie finally called him. She was barely able to squeeze a word in that she was fine between Thomas’s apologies about missing their friend date as well as his machine gun questions.

_“I stayed over at someone’s place. It’s fine.”_

_“Someone’s?”_

_“…Someone I met at the gallery, okay?”_

_“Oh.”_

That had been that. Thomas sounded surprised, but there was relief as well. Billie thinks the conversation felt like moving forward, like she was reclaiming bits of her life after they scattered.

The walk from bus stop to library is peaceful, and Billie’s mind floats from the buzzing high it’s been on for days. The cold air clears her sinuses, and the sidewalks are empty after the press of rush hour. She can think clearly again.

Billie wants to find Delilah, or at least evidence that the woman exists and that Friday night wasn’t just a dream born of desperation and loneliness.

In the library, Billie finds a computer near the wall as far from other patrons as possible. She rapidly types Delilah’s full name into a search engine. The first list of results are rabbit holes—unrelated people on social media, mentions of Delilah in articles about different artists, paragraph-long reviews about exhibits already long over. Billie searches images. There’s nothing of Delilah’s paintings and only a few poor-quality images of the woman herself. Billie clicks on news, upcoming events, _anything._

Billie holds her breath and digs deeper, much like an explorer crawling into an uncharted cave.

The research was supposed to help, but everything that Billie finds is as flimsy as evidence for sea monsters or ghosts. It’s like Delilah is a legend even in the world of painters. Billie’s eyes ravage the photos, blurred and grainy captures of a woman increasingly elusive. Even her features look more foreign and inhuman the longer Billie lets herself get lost in each picture.

She searches for addresses for some of the exhibits. She tries to find anything about the one she had visited in person only days prior. Nothing shows. After digging through one hopeless clue after another, Billie stumbles upon an old blog post, from a social website that Billie didn’t even know was still functioning. The post reads like a weird combination of gossip magazine and fairytale. It details an exhibit held in an underground nightclub, coupled with the usual party experience of drinks and deafening music.

The writer wastes nearly half of the blog post extolling all the virtues of Delilah’s work and how “subversive” and “sensual” and “exclusive” it is. Billie cannot help but smirk as she remembers the disgust in Delilah’s voice when she talked of her adoring fans and how they fawn over every breath she takes. Unable to repress it, Billie feels a bubble of hope lodge in her chest again, a desperate desire that she may be different from all the women and men vying for a place in Delilah’s bed.

At the bottom of the web page is a small selection of photos that appear to have been taken by camera phone. Billie clicks her tongue, unable to keep herself from judging the poor craftsmanship of each snapshot. The photos showcase the heavy darkness of the room with spotlights as island oases for the paintings; there is an overwhelming press of people in each one, the photos capturing each person in unflattering angles and expressions.

There is only one exception. The last photo is a shadowy mass of people and blurred lines of light. Like Venus emerging from the sea, Delilah is in clear focus at the center of the crowd, a pale face of marble beauty, dressed in a black shift that leaves most of her upper body barely covered. She stares directly at the camera as though she is beckoning the viewer closer. A coy smile plays at her lips.

It’s the only invitation Billie needs. She must see Delilah again.

(.)

The camera feels heavy, but its curves fit into the crook of Billie’s palm like a long forgotten friend coming home. She has three cameras, two digital and one film, and this one in her hands is a relic. It’s nearly as old as Billie is. A classmate from college gave it to her—a time only years ago but feels like eons.

Billie is standing in the bathroom attached to her room. She uses it as a makeshift black room when she still feels the spark to take pictures and devote time to the ritual of process. The trays of liquid have been bone dry for months, and Billie never had the heart to take down the still hanging photos from her last development. Skyscapes and buildings downtown. Lackluster, but some are decent.

She’ll need to clean up the space soon. Moving day is in a week. Billie has no fucking clue where she’s headed, but she’s managed this far. She doesn’t own that much furniture, and most of her other belongings can fit into two suitcases. She’ll sleep on a friend’s couch until she can get something else squared away.

But if there’s one advantage to packing, it’s that it forces her to acknowledge all of her cameras and photos. It’s been too long, she decides.

She snaps open the side of the camera and pulls out the partially used roll of film. She places it on the crowded counter by the sink, making a promise to herself to develop it before she dismantles the black room. There are pictures on it she doesn’t want to remember, of happier times, but developing those photos will be a good way to let go.

She hears a knock on her bedroom door and holds back a groan.

Yelling from the bathroom, she calls, “What?”

A muffled response, “It’s Thomas.”

Billie closes the camera, takes it with her, and stashes in the top drawer of her dresser with the other cameras. “Yeah, come in.”

He opens and closes the door quickly and with such secrecy that Billie raises an eyebrow at him. Thomas laughs a little breathlessly at her face.

“Sorry, I just— Frederica’s in a foul mood right now, and I’m trying to avoid her.”

Billie sits on her bed, leaning against the wall, gesturing for Thomas to join her, “Join the club. I avoid her all the time.”

Thomas frowns at that when he perches on the corner of the bed, pulling one leg under himself. “Yeah. I know that.”

He bites his lip, his foot starting to bounce. Billie sighs and leans her head back to stare at the ceiling. There’s a cobweb she hasn’t noticed before.

“So, is that all?” she ventures. “Or did you want to talk about something?”

Thomas’s foots blessedly stops tapping. “Did...did something happen between you and Freddie?”

“Define ‘something’.”

“A fight?”

“Argument. But that’s not new.”

“I know, but—“

“The scratch?”

Thomas hesitates, then nods. “She’s been really moody. Like more than usual. I mean, she snapped at me for not getting a new dish towel this morning because the old one was wet.”

Billie snorts. “Yeah, sounds like her.”

Thomas bumps her with a foot. “Maybe to you.” He pulls his second leg up into a crossed foot position. “And she doesn’t want to talk, so I figured I’d try you.”

“It’s just the usual,” Billie sighs. “She’ll be like this until she moves out.”

“I guess.” Thomas runs a hand through his hair. It’s getting long, covering his ears and falling into his eyes. “I feel bad for abandoning both of you.”

Billie chuckles. “Don’t. I’m glad things are working out with what’s-his-name.”

“Daud.”

“Yeah, him.” Billie’s eyes glow at him. “Never thought you’d have a thing for older men.”

Thomas’s face turns red. “He’s not that old.”

“Word of advice, Thomas,” Billie jokes, though there’s underlying seriousness in her voice. “If it doesn’t work out, move first. _Then_ break up.”

Thomas’s drily replies, “Noted.” He glances sidelong at her when he leans on his arms. “Do you have a place lined up yet?”

_No._

She lies.

“Yeah. I’ll be fine. I’ve got other friends, you know.”

Thomas pulls at his jeans. “Like the friend whose place you stayed at a few days ago?”

“Thomas,” Billie warns.

“What?” He looks at her pleadingly. “I still feel awful that I forgot to meet you—“

“It’s _fine_ —“

“And then you go AWOL for over twelve hours, and I’m not allowed to be worried?”

“Adults have sex, Thomas. That’s a thing we do.”

He throws his hands up. “Congrats on getting laid, Billie. Since you said that’s not what you wanted right now.”

Billie shakes her head. “Look, Thomas, I know you’re worried, but it’s fine. _I’m_ fine.” She gives him a gentle shove when he won’t look at her. “You were right. I needed that, and it helped.”

“Did it?” His voice is a touch above a whisper. “Have you even slept since then? I keep hearing you move about at odd hours of the night.”

Billie incredulously reminds him, “I work nights, Thomas.”

Thomas shrugs. “Changing the subject.”

Billie laughs, hoping she sounds normal despite the weird flip in her stomach. “Yeah, speaking of subject changes and work, I’ve got to leave for my wonderful job soon.”

Thomas sighs and gets up. “Okay, okay. I know when I’m prying.”

“But you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t.”

“Yeah, just,” he asks before opening the door, “Take care of yourself, okay? Freddie made it sound like you attacked her.”

Billie hands involuntarily clench, but she manages to keep her face passive. “Frederica is being melodramatic.”

Thomas ducks his head. “Sure.”

The door clicks behind him. Billie stares at it for a full ten seconds, her fists opening and closing. She needs to leave now. She pushes herself off the bed and digs for her work boots from the closet. She yanks them on, throws a sweatshirt over her flannel, and finds her coat and hat.

Paranoia and panic buoy around her head--relentless satellites orbiting her mind. She needs fresh air. She needs to get the hell out of here. She needs to see Delilah again. She needs someone who fucking looks at her like she’s a person and not a fucking basketcase.

The gallery.

She needs to find it again.

She grabs her keys and heads for the door.

The snow is falling from the sky with a fury, and Billie loses herself in gusts of snowflakes as she marches through the streets of the darkening city.

(.)

It takes her an hour, retracing her steps. She’s late for work. She doesn’t care.

The concrete building sits like a child’s abandoned block. There are no posters. No lights. It resembles a prison, and only a few street lights span the edges of the walkway, resembling a descent into hell.

Billie tries the front doors. Locked. She looks up at the building. The only windows are large rectangles toward the roof, and nothing illuminates them. She follows the outline of the building, trying to find any back entrances. She finds a loading dock and a couple of heavy utility doors. Also locked. She growls and kicks one in her frustration. She immediately regrets it as her foot throbs.

The snow falls faster, collecting on her shoulders and catching in her eyelashes. Her eyes burn.

She keeps edging along the building. She walks through a sort of alleyway, a space carved between concrete and brick and metal. The darkness is almost palpable here. No more doors. The throb in Billie’s foot keeps her from punching or kicking anything else, but the urge doesn’t die.

A light shines through the darkness, blinding Billie.

“Who’s there?” A man’s voice yells at her.

_Security. Shit._

Billie runs, her feet sliding in some of the ice.

“Hey, wait!”

Footfalls pound behind her. Billie races across the street, barely dodging a car. The driver blares their horn at her, yelling from inside the safety of the vehicle. She ducks into another alleyway, searching for the streetlights a block over.

The bob of the flashlight is far behind her now, and she pants heavily as she runs block after block. She stops under a light to catch her breath and figure out her surroundings.

She remembers Delilah saying the exhibit was coming to an end, but there is nothing left, as though Delilah were a ghost who evaporated into the air, taking all memory of her existence with her.

Billie screams fruitlessly at the sky.

(.)

She is two hours late for her shift at the warehouse. Her co-worker Rulfio covers for her, but his face is near murderous when he sees her slink into the backroom. As she pulls on her vest, she lets him rant at her but offers no excuses. She feels like she is walking through water, like a dream where no matter how hard she tries to run, she will constantly trip and fall. She apologizes halfheartedly to Rulfio. She knows how much of a hard ass their boss is, but Billie can’t make herself care what the old man thinks. Rothwild is a bull of a man with a short fuse, always eager to fire people who even look at him wrong. He’s let people go over his own fucking mistakes. And right now, Billie’s mind is still a swirling mess over the nonexistent gallery and her conversation with Thomas. She can’t focus on anything.

It’s easy enough to let her body’s instincts take over. For someone who’s never driven a car, navigating a forklift calms Billie. It’s intoxicating, how the power of the machine is trapped as a manageable hum under Billie’s hands. It’s easy to let her mind go elsewhere for the hours that she helps unload trucks, move crates, and stock shelves. She doesn’t have to pretend or present some coiffed version of herself. Everyone here doesn’t give a shit.

The first half of her shift—notwithstanding the time lost for her tardiness—goes without event. Billie only has thoughts for what she’s going to do next about Delilah. She’s at a loss. There’s no way to contact her, and all her attempts at finding the woman have led to dead ends.

She thinks again about moving, about Thomas leaving, about Frederica’s flashing eyes above that sharp, red scratch. Billie is trying to align the prongs of the forklift with a pallet, but she misjudges and has to back up. Her mind distracts her, painting a picture of Delilah, pale and naked and supple and thin, with the same angry red marks across her belly and thighs. Billie misses the crate again, curses under her breath.

Someone far away yells for her to stop.

She hears the voice a second too late.

She feels the collision deep in her bones before she hears the commotion, hears the screams, sees other workers rushing toward her. Toward them.

Oh, _fuck_.

She glances over her shoulder to see someone pinned under the back of the forklift.

In a split second decision, she moves it forward enough so that the man is no longer underneath the machine. Rulfio is screaming at Billie to stop, to get off the damn machine.

She only hears it in a fog.

A small crowd has gathered around them. One woman is speaking hurriedly into a cell phone. Another worker races away, likely to send word to Rothwild. Billie looks at her coworker, lying prone in a pool of their own blood. Rulfio has the poor man propped against him, trying to keep him conscious. Billie’s eyes trail down his torso to his hip, and then—

Nothing.

His leg is gone.  Obliterated. As though he never had the damn thing in the first place.

There’s a hint of cloth from his pants, and his shoe is sitting about a foot away, punctuated by a smear of red. The air reeks of copper.

A person in the crowd retches, and Billie thinks she might do the same.

Someone roughly grabs her arm and pulls her aside. Abigail Ames. The head supervisor. She’s an otherwise nice woman—certainly in comparison with Rothwild, but her face is pale with fury.

“Alright, everyone, back up! This isn’t a show! Back to work!” She waves her arms at everyone, even shoves a few who don’t move fast enough. She tells Rulfio, short, to the point, “An ambulance is on its way.”

Billie is leaning against the metal support of one of the shelves, her eyes captured by the pool of blood that is so thick around the man’s hip that it looks black.

“And _you_ , ” Abigail snaps her head at Billie. “What the _hell_ were you doing? Do you have any idea the kind of insurance mess this is going to be? If he _dies_ —“

Billie blinks sluggishly. The man in Rulfio’s arms doesn’t react to Abigail’s words. Billie wonders if he’s halfway to death already. She feels regret, but not for him.

Abigail shoves her nose into Billie’s face, her voice dropping to a dangerous pitch, “Leave. Fuck off. Step in front of a goddamn bus. I don’t care. I’ll be lucky if Rothwild doesn’t run _me_ over with a forklift after this.”

Billie doesn’t say anything. She can’t _think_ of anything to say. She doesn’t have an excuse. Rulfio looks apologetic, but there is also fear on his face. The poor man is probably concerned that all the times he’s covered for Billie will bite him in the ass. Knowing Rothwild, that wouldn’t be much of a surprise.

Billie starts to ask Abigail what she should do with her work things, but Abigail cuts her off.

“It doesn’t matter. You don’t work here anymore, that’s for certain.” She kneels beside Rulfio. “Get out of here, Lurk. Authorities will be in touch soon enough.”

Billie nods, absently, more to herself than to Abigail. She leaves her vest and hard hat on the seat of the forklift and starts the long walk to the front of the warehouse. She must have stepped in part of the pool of blood because one foot leaves a trail of prints for several meters. The eyes of her coworkers follow every step, like creatures in the shadows calculating every move, every breath. Hurried whispers accompany the sound of scuffling shoes when Billie moves too close to anyone. They all stare at her with horror and wonder. Maybe they think she did it on purpose. Who knows what they think.

Billie wants to get out of here and roughly shoves open the nearest door she finds.

It’s still storming outside.

(.)

With the time lost from her shift, in the quiet hours of the early morning, the only sound from outside being the gusts of wind and snow, Billie develops the final roll of film.

As the picture slowly forms, Frederica becomes clear on the glossy photo paper. The photo is from a week before they broke up. Frederica was working in her studio late, distracted by one of her sculptures, earbuds blocking the noise of her surroundings. Billie sat quietly in a corner, mesmerized by the intense focus on the other woman’s face. The photo is of her profile, eyes trained on a distant spot, lips slightly pursed. She had pushed her glasses onto her head, and her hair is tied up into a high ponytail. She is backlit by the overhead fluorescent lights and a single utility spotlight behind her. Frederica was like something out of legends with wisps of hair framing her face and her eyes on a distant future, private only to herself.

Happier times, indeed.

Billie loses her steam after a few more photos. She leaves them hanging in the bathroom.

There’s a text on her phone when she goes back to her room.

She feels her heart skip.

It’s from Delilah. Brief. _Some friends have organized a soiree in my honor. You should come. Bring your authenticity with you. Maybe you’ll infect the others._

Billie’s hands shake as she types a reply.

_Sure. When?_

She sets the phone on her bed and sits behind it. Impatience is making her jumpy, and she tells herself she should get some sleep instead of waiting on Delilah like some lost dog.

Mercifully, her phone beeps.

_Tonight. At 8._

Billie finally notices the time. It’s past six in the morning. Shit, she should sleep. It’s been a long and surreal night. She’ll want rest if she’s going to dive into Delilah’s crowd.

_It’s at a friend’s house on Clavering Boulevard._

Billie’s heart races with the giddiness of a high school crush, and she memorizes the time and place until it’s all that she can think--a gentle mantra that rocks her mind until she falls asleep, dreaming of things turning out alright.

(.)

Clavering Boulevard. It’s the nice part of town, near the suburbs—houses with manicured lawns, looping drives, and large windows. It’s the kind of place where the wealthy cloister themselves, within reach of the city, but secluded enough to maintain their elitism.

Billie has to take a taxi. The fare is obscene, but Billie grits her teeth and pays it. She has the driver let her off a few blocks from the house, and as she walks the five extra minutes, she is glad for the wisdom of that decision.

There are cars lined up the road and driveway—nice ones, some with logos that Billie doesn’t even recognize. She wanted to arrive fashionably late, hoping that she could slip into the party with as little attention drawn to her as possible. She tried to dress up for the party, but when she rummaged through her closet earlier, she was distressed to find few things that weren’t ripped or splattered with coffee and paint stains.

Ducking her head and avoiding the stares she is certain she is getting, Billie makes her way toward the gate—fuck, _another_ doorman. While the man waves through a shiny silver vehicle, he gawks at Billie and tries to block her path. She has to argue with the man for a solid five minutes, insisting that she was invited. She yanks her phone out to show him the texts from Delilah, but as soon as the woman’s name leaves her lips, the man blanches, stutters an apology. He says something like _one of Miss Copperspoon’s friends,_ grandly gesturing Billie forward.

Oh, man, what a zoo. Billie hates that this is the only way she can see Delilah again. The house isn’t as large as Billie expects, but the place is teeming with the activity of the guests. There’s a fountain in the front lawn, albeit covered in snow and ice rather than running water, and someone’s rigged up what looks like miniature balloons, glowing like orbs in the sky. The edges of everything are softened by the light, and Billie cannot deny that the sight is beautiful.

If only she could shake off the dread that weighs down every step as she approaches the front door.

She enters the main house, squeezing behind a couple in matching tuxedos. Inside, there is music playing from hidden speakers, and she sees a guestbook on an ornate table, around which she sidesteps. She is also struck by a cloud of scents—perfumes, wine, and the odor of cooked fat. Her stomach flips, but she tries to stay calm, her eyes scanning the foyer for Delilah. Nowhere yet. There is already a sizable crowd milling about with small plates of food and glasses in hand.

The house is warm, and Billie removes her hat, squeezing it between her hands. Noticing the curious glances she is receiving from better-dressed guests, Billie keeps the coat on. It’s one of her nicer pieces of clothing, but also, she has to admit to herself that leaving her coat on feels like an easy escape. Once she’s found Delilah and has said her piece, she’ll find the nearest door and leave. Easy.

To the left of the foyer are large, windowed doors that frame an elegant parlor, but there is a fog of claustrophobia that blankets everything. Thick carpets, heavy drapery, and large furniture leave few empty spaces, and what gaps remain are filled with people. Two paintings have been set up on easels near a large marble fireplace. Billie recognizes the work. One is the portrait of the wild-eyed woman. Billie remembers it from the exhibit. The other painting is new, but the subject is the same. In the second portrait, the woman’s back is to the painter, hair falling down her naked back. Her arms are crossed across her chest, hugging a blanket to herself. There is also those familiar eyes, with their fire and mischief, peering over her shoulder at the painter. It’s the woman who looks like Frederica.

So, this display is for Delilah then. In her honor perhaps? Billie takes another second to appraise the two paintings before she ducks her head into the next room. There is a long table with refreshments, most of which are an odd assortments of color and smells. When Billie spies something that looks like snails, she forgoes the food and opts for a glass of white wine instead.

Billie circles around the house, catching a glimpse of a bright kitchen, a smoke-filled study, and another parlor with cozier seating and low lighting. No Delilah. Some people are slipping out onto the back patio, despite the cold. When Billie steps outside, she is greeted by two women obviously having a private moment, and when one them glares pointedly.

Billie ducks her head, apologizing. “Oh, excuse me.”

The tall one glares at Billie, but the other woman, partly hidden behind her, laughs and elbows her friend.

“Come on, Lydia” she admonishes, her voice bright as bells. “It’s a party. We’re supposed to mingle.”

Lydia looks embarrassed, but as she starts to head back inside, her eyes lock with Billie’s. She must like what she sees because a sly smile grows on her face the closer she gets to Billie.

Billie starts. It’s _her_. It’s the woman from the painting. It’s—

She looks nearly identical to Frederica. They could be sisters.

The other woman slinks up beside Lydia, looping her arm with Lydia’s.

“Besides, the guest of honor should be here any minute,” the woman adds with a touch of giddy conspiracy. “And she wants _you_ to be there.”

“I know, Esme, I know,” Lydia says, the smiling disappearing as she glances away from Billie.

With Lydia’s attention diverted, the women ignore Billie as they push past her to reenter the kitchen. Billie presses herself against a wall to get out of their way.

 _Guest of honor_. She assumes that it must be Delilah.

_So, she’s not here._

_Not yet. Don’t panic._

Billie follows the path of Lydia and Esme, slipping back into the kitchen in time to see the pair disappear down a hallway. Billie retrieves another glass of wine from the dining room before she finds a corner to squeeze herself into--away from noise, bright lights, and people. She checks the time on her watch. The party started over an hour ago.

Another hour passes, and Billie has downed two more glasses of wine. Her mind feels fuzzy, and her fingertips tingle. She checks her phone, noticing two more text notifications. Her heart races as she opens the messages. They’re not from Delilah. Billie bites the inside of her cheek, chastises herself for hoping.

The first message is from Thomas.

_Im staying at a friend’s tonight. don’t wait up :p_

“Friend.” Billie can’t help but smile. Thomas has been using that excuse for weeks now, and she wonders if he realizes how transparent he’s being.

The second message is from Frederica. Billie’s thumb pauses over the screen. Muscle memory makes her breath catch. The last time Frederica bothered to text Billie was to break up with her, so Billie can’t imagine what the hell she wants tonight.

She swipes the screen, opening the message.

_One of your coworkers called me. Why the hell would they call me?? I gave them your number._

Billie scoffs and starts to shove the phone back into her pocket, but it buzzes.

_I need to talk with you. Where are you??_

There’s a commotion of noise coming from the front of the house. The phone buzzes. Another text.

_It’s important. I need to tell you in person._

Billie types a quick reply.

_then it can fuckgn wiat_

She joins the line of people moving toward the room with the paintings. She can see the fireplace and it’s display from between a pair of shoulders. She tries pushing her way closer but stops when she finally spots Delilah.

She’s obviously just arrived. She hasn’t even removed her overcoat. Delilah is standing beside Lydia, her arm wrapped around her waist. She has a small, close-lipped smile on her face as Lydia—somewhat drunkenly—introduces her. Delilah’s eyes are dim as she scans the crowd before her. Billie is torn between shrinking into a corner and pushing forward, desperate to fall into Delilah’s line of sight.

“Thank you all for coming,” Lydia says, holding a glass up. “As many of you know, Delilah has been a dear friend for some time now. And now that she’s set for brighter horizons, I promise all of you that no one will miss her more than me.”

A ripple of laughter goes through the guests, and Delilah shrugs a single shoulder, tenderly shaking her head before kissing the woman’s cheek and pulling away. Billie frowns as thoughts race through her head.

_Brighter horizons? Is she leaving?_

The crowd parts as Delilah makes her way toward the dining room, many flocking to congratulate her or say how much they will miss her.

_I thought she said she just moved here._

Delilah sees her. Billie is frozen, feeling like a small child caught in the act of disobeying. Her throat is tight, eyes wide. There is a second where Billie thinks Delilah doesn’t recognize her, but it passes as soon as Delilah gives her an almost imperceptible nod. She doesn’t offer any form of greeting, but neither does Billie.

She shouldn’t be here. Billie feels as though the floor is slowly sinking beneath her feet. But she wants to follow Delilah. She wants to say something to her. She had been terrified that the exhibit and their night together was some bizarre and lucid dream, but here’s Delilah in the flesh, under lights that make her pale skin glow like a ghost. She’s real, and Billie has to have something ground her when everything else in her life is going to shit.

She shoulders her way past people, finding Delilah standing near the doorframe to the kitchen. She’s removed her overcoat, revealing a high-necked red blouse that starkly contrasts her pale skin. Billie thinks for a second that the color makes her look dead. A trio of women surround Delilah, each like vultures seeking fresh meat. Billie stands behind one of them and clears her throat.

Delilah’s eyes snap to her, and Billie feels the confidence waver.

“Can we talk?” She directs the question to Delilah.

There’s a pause where no one speaks, and one of the vultures starts to edge Billie out of the circle before Delilah speaks up.

“A moment, ladies. I’ll let you tell me all about your northern cruise when I return. I’m sure it’s a _riveting_ story.”

Delilah places her hand on the small of Billie’s back, but instead of leading Billie out to the back patio, the two of them weave their way to the front of the house and then up a pair of stairs. Billie can feel Delilah’s nails through the thickness of her coat. They feel like claws. The upstairs is dark, the only light coming from the stairwell, but Delilah doesn’t turn on any lights, instead standing across the hall from Billie with her arms folded across her chest.

“Well,” she starts, “it’s good to see that you came. What did you want to tell me that couldn’t wait?”

Billie is struck by the coolness in Delilah’s tone. She gapes at Delilah, more hurt than she would like to admit.

“I’m here because you invited me,” Billie reminds her.

Delilah has the decency to look chagrined. Her eyes dart to the carpet before locking her gaze with Billie.

“Yes. And here you are, drooling at the mouth like all the rest of them.”

In a distant corner of Billie’s mind, she remembers an accusation of Frederica’s that she had shoved away, hoping to forget it. _You’re intense. You obsess. You’re so involved in_ me _that you do nothing for_ yourself _._

Billie’s vision blurs with red.

She erupts.

“So making me feel special was just a ruse to fuck me?” she demands, feeling stupid about it.

Delilah’s glare is cool. No wrinkles mar her perfect face, and Billie imagines for a moment that she is arguing with a statue—cold, emotionless stone.

“No,” Delilah says, her voice low, “you _are_ special. Don’t forget that you’re not like the rest of the mindless idiots downstairs.”

Billie scoffs. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

Delilah sighs, breaking eye contact and picking at her fingers.

“You’re interesting,” she admits, voice even softer than before. “You say what you mean, not what you think I want to hear. And I’d like to think you’re not vying for my attention just in the hopes that my success rubs off on you.”

She smiles, mirthlessly. “Contrary to whatever you may believe, I don’t give my affection to just anyone.”

Billie has to reach deep inside herself to find her voice. “Then why did you ask me to come?”

Delilah simply says, “I’m leaving. A job offer. It was unexpected.”

The conversation is no more. One of the party guests calls for Delilah from the stairs. Billie thinks to grab her arm, give one more pitiful plea. Delilah leaves her in the darkened hallway. Billie clenches and unclenches her fist. She shouldn’t have come. Someone screams in laughter downstairs. She shouldn’t have come. Delilah is leaving, possibly to never return.

She shouldn’t have come.

Her phone is exploding with text messages and missed calls. She pulls it out and turns it off. Ignoring the bright lights and music, Billie leaves, out the front door, across the snowy lawn, and down the unforgiving black asphalt of the road.

(.)

Frederica is in a frenzy when Billie walks through the front door.

“Billie,” she lurches from the kitchen, her eyes bloodshot. Her glasses are missing. “What the hell is going on? The police were just here, asking for you.”

Billie starts to stoop to take off her shoes.

“Police? Did they say why?”

Frederica grabs Billie’s arm. “How are you so calm about this? What did you do?”

Billie slaps the hand away. “It’s not what you think. There was an accident at work.”

“An accident? Well, whatever the hell it is, they’re pressing charges.”

“Fine. Okay. It’s just more shit. I can handle it.” She pushes past Frederica, going to the kitchen to get water from the sink. “I don’t need your help.”

Frederica is breathing heavily. She sniffs a couple of times, rubbing her thumb against her chin and eyes. Billie finds a reasonably clean glass and turns on the faucet. The city water always tastes of chemicals, but Billie gulps it down. She puts the glass under the faucet to get a second helping. She needs to water to sober up.

Frederica’s voice is faint under the sound of running water. “What’s happened to you?”

Billie pauses. “What?”

“It’s like you’re a different person now that we’ve broken up. You never talk to me.”

Billie sets the glass down in the sink. “You never talk to me, either.”

Frederica’s crying, fat tears running down her cheeks. Billie feels a flash of irritation course through her. Maybe she should feel pity, but after taking out a man’s leg and arguing with Delilah, Billie feels anger simmering inside of her.

“Billie, I want to know if we’re okay.”

Billie slams a hand on the counter. Frederica jumps at the noise. Billie breathes in sharply through her nose, trying to calm herself down. Her head feels tight, and the pain in her temples makes it hard to think. She tries to divert the conversation by heading to her bedroom.

“I had an affair.”

Billie stops by the kitchen island, the statement catching her off guard.

“Wait, you—“

Frederica cuts her off. “You don’t know him. He’s an intern at the school.”

Billie swallows. “And you’re telling me now because—“

“Because I realized when I slept with him that things were broken with us.” Frederica has to gasp in air between her soft sobs. She presses a hand to her chest, trying to calm herself. “You deserved to know the truth.”

Unable to look at Frederica and her messy hair and watery eyes, Billie shakes her head and lets her chin drop against her chest.

“It doesn’t matter now.”

She starts to leave, but Frederica moves forward to catch her arm again.

“Can I say sorry at least?” Frederica’s voice is shrill, frantic.

Billie tries to pull away, but Frederica’s grip is stronger this time.

“No, you can’t. You decided what was best for both of us, so fucking live with it.”

Frederica tugs on her arm. God, she’s a fucking child.

“I just want to help.”

“You’re not!”

Billie’s free hand lashes out, hitting Frederica square in the shoulder. Frederica stumbles back. Her grip on Billie’s arm slackens. Billie frees her arm, grabbing Frederica by the shoulders and throwing her backwards. Frederica’s ankles cross, and she is unable to catch herself. Her head hits the edge of the kitchen island before she lands on the floor. Billie’s mind is clouded as she falls on top of Frederica, hitting her again and again in the face. Someone is screaming. Billie doesn’t know who. There is blood in Frederica’s mouth. Billie feels the warmth of it smeared across her knuckles.

She stops.

The screaming stops.

There’s blood.

Oh, god, there’s _blood_.

Frederica’s head lolls against the side of wall, her neck cranked at an unusual angle, pushing her head forward. Some of her hair has slipped across her face, obscuring the bruises that are already swelling along her cheekbones.

Billie says her name in a whisper.

“Frederica?”

When there’s no response, she says her name louder. She pushes the hair from Frederica’s face.

The faucet is still running. It’s the only noise in the apartment that accompanies Billie’s haggard breathing.

Billie slides Frederica away from the wall, letting her head rest on the floor.

The walls of the room close in tight around Billie. She goes to the sink, shoves her hands under the water, watching the red pool and disappear down the drain.

She leaves. The door to the apartment slams shut behind her. She can still hear the running water. She can still see the blood.

(.)

There is a photo, left undeveloped in a roll of film, left in the bathroom.

In it, Frederica stares out from where she sits, undressed, her hair down. She is smiling, but there is a glint of wildness in her eyes. Seconds after the photo was taken, she clambered to Billie, took the camera from her hands and lay kisses on Billie’s neck and ear.

“I’ll never get tired of this,” she whispered.

Billie kissed her and murmured a mirror promise.

The film lays undeveloped in a forgotten corner of the black room.

(.)

The wind is picking up, a sharp cold that needles Billie in her cheeks and in her ears. She forgot her hat at the party and wishes she had it to block the chill from her forehead. She walks aimlessly down the sidewalk, past the closed storefronts, neon signs, and looming dark buildings. The wind is bringing in a storm. Billie can smell the humidity in the air.

She flinches at every car that passes her. She hears sirens in the distance and imagines that they’re for her. She forces herself to walk. Otherwise, she would run. She would run with abandon, dive before cars, climb the tallest skyscraper and throw herself from it.

She walks.

She checks her phone, the time. It’s the early hours of morning. All the messages are from Frederica earlier. Billie can’t bring herself to read them. Billie sends a text to Thomas, _I’m sorry_ all that she could manage. He doesn’t reply. Asleep or otherwise distracted. Billie feels envious but glad all the same for him.

Life has to work for some people, she supposes.

She tries texting Delilah a few times. Nothing demanding. She tells Delilah where she is, what landmark she’s passing, says nothing more than that she fucked up.

Her feet ache with numbness from the miles she’s walked. Snow starts to drift from the sky, and as it falls faster, she huddles under the awning of a pharmacy. Her shoulders slump. Exhaustion seeps into her bones, and the weight of it drags her to the ground where she crouches, leaning against the glass front of the store.

She hears a car turn onto the road, and Billie curls deeper into herself, trying to be invisible from the street. The car is driving slowly, its headlights hitting the snowflakes like dust falling from the sky. They’re looking for someone, Billie can tell. Whether it’s for her or not, she figures this is it. She wonders if there is still some of Frederica’s blood on her hands or her clothes, maybe on a strand of her hair or under one of her nails.

The car stops in front of her.

Billie waits.

“I can stay here as long as you want, but fair warning, the engine will run out of gas eventually.”

Billie looks up, sharp. A black car is parked before her, and the driver’s side window is down. Delilah sits behind the wheel, her face neutral, both eyebrows raised.

She jerks her head at the car’s interior. “It’s warmer in here.”

Billie almost laughs, but the bubble in her throat feels suspiciously like a sob. She staggers to her feet and climbs to the passenger’s side of the car. The vents blow out warm air, and Billie feels the stiffness in her limbs loosen. She chuckles a little, unsure if any of this is real.

“You have a car? You called a taxi last time.”

Delilah rolls up the window, changing gears and driving back into the main road. “It’s new.”

“You bought it?”

“It was a gift.”

“A going-away present?”

Delilah laughs. “Not quite.”

She adds no other detail, instead glancing at Billie before looking back at the road.

“You look like hell. I didn’t see you after our…conversation at the party.”

“I left,” Billie sighs, leaning against the window of the car. “I can’t stay here. Everything’s wrong now.”

They stop at a traffic light. Delilah retrieves out a pack of cigarettes from the console of the car, lighting it using the heated cylinder from the car’s dash. Billie closes her eyes and nearly falls asleep, lulled by the hum of the car and by the strong smell of the smoke. Delilah cracks open her window, and Billie feels the car start accelerating again.

“Well, it’s a nice time of year to head south,” Delilah offers after a long exhale. “On the coast. I’ve had a rather serendipitous offer come my way.”

Billie turns to look at Delilah. She is hard to see, the darkness of her clothes mixing with the dark interior of the car. Only the lines of her face are illuminated by passing street lamps, the pale lights of the car’s dashboard, and the orange glow of the cigarette balanced between two fingers.

“The sea air will be good for you.”

Billie’s hears the unspoken invitation. She nods, uncaring if Delilah sees or not. She reclines back in her seat. Delilah turns the radio on, keeping the volume low, a soft jazz that fills the car. Billie finally gives in to the tired groan in her muscles and sleeps.

Delilah hums along to the music.

Billie hears the running faucet.

And she only imagines the sea.

end


End file.
